


Flip

by peppermintquartz



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintquartz/pseuds/peppermintquartz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't a genius, but he does know how to handle Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flip

"I'm not sorry, you know."

"About?"

"About Mary."

John blows out his breath. He unclenches his fists and clenches them again, before relaxing. "Of course. Why would you. Not like you haven't run off all my other girlfriends."

Sherlock glances up from the microscope. "Precisely. They were just girlfriends, John. When they mean more to you, maybe I will be sorry."

Now John really wants to punch Sherlock. He strides into the kitchen to make tea, briefly considering if he ought to pour boiling water over that mould culture just to spite the consulting detective, and instead makes a second cup of tea.

"I can't get them to mean more to me," John says after a decent interval, during which his temper percolates and simmers down and eases off, "not if you keep interfering and intercepting my dates when I am trying to get to know them."

"Hmm?" Sherlock twiddles with the slide. "You're still on about that? She was dull, John. All you'll hear if you marry her would be tales of tiny troublemaking tots. You'd be bored out of your skull, and that is unacceptable. You deserve better." He smirks. "You need excitement in your life."

The doctor sighs and sips his tea. No point arguing.

_1234567890_

 

John stamps the mud off his boots and scrapes as much as he can off the heels and soles. "That," he tells Sherlock, "was not good."

The consulting detective hangs up his scarf and coat, frowning at the stain that runs along the lovely deep blue scarf and then looks at John. "What wasn't?"

"Sneering at Anderson who was trying to comfort Sally. The woman's mother had just died, of course she'd react badly to the dead woman on the scene." John regards Sherlock with something akin to disappointment. "Telling her that she was behaving like a petulant and useless child was uncalled for also."

"Oh." Sherlock snorts. "Was I supposed to coddle her and tell her it'll be better? That she's strong and capable and all that tosh?"

"No, I expected you to act like a human being and leave them alone, actually," says John, still disappointed. "You're not incapable of showing some humanity, Sherlock Holmes, so don't sell yourself short."

It is a mite tense after that statement, before Sherlock's gaze darts aside. "I will... endeavor to ignore her reactions later, when Lestrade calls us to go down to the Yard. But do not ask me to apologize."

"I didn't think you would. But do give her the cranberry scones Mrs Hudson baked for you." John almost smiles. "She'll understand. She may not eat them, but she'll understand."

Sherlock studies John again as the doctor marches up the stairs for a change of clothes. It is good to know that John still wants Sherlock to be more than he already is. A new standard to measure up to. John's standard for him has not faltered nor changed.

He has missed it.

 

_1234567890_

 

Sherlock curls into the sheets and exhales slowly, muscles relaxing cell by cell as he forces himself to unfurl. A bad night.

He pads silently into the living room and picks up his violin. It settles into crook of neck and hand like it is meant to; the warmth of the wood, the soft reassuring hum of the strings... He tunes it deftly, and then begins to play. Mozart first: plebeian, but a quick warm-up. He will delve into others later, mixing and matching as he wants.

A quick glance out at the streets and a check of the clock on the mantel tells him it is four-twenty-six in the morning. 

Then soft footfalls come down the stairs and he closes his eyes, sinking deeper into the voice of his beloved instrument. It sings to him, for him, and John does not interrupt even as he makes tea for two in the kitchen.

A few minutes later the doctor is bundled in the sofa, listening without comment, and the two lets the violin soothes away nighttime fears.

 

_1234567890_

 

"I am not going to do this," snarls John. "I'm not. You don't want this, I can tell, so we are NOT doing this!"

"Why not?!" Sherlock all but spits out, his coat whirling as he stalks down the street again. "Because I don't want this? I never wanted this! This is a  _weakness_ , and vulnerability, and it is already proven that you are my weak spot. That I will do anything for you. I do not want this, this sentimental drivel that blocks my mind. But I  _need_ this, if only to make sure I can go on with the Work with the assurance that you are with me in everything _._ "

John stops and glares belligerently. "I'm not marrying you, Sherlock. You just _proposed_ to me when we haven't even dated."

The two men stare at each other in the middle of the pavement. Passers-by carefully edge around them. The tension can probably cut diamonds.

"We have lived together for four years. I think we accommodate each other's peculiarities quite well." Sherlock forces a deep inhalation. God he wants his cigarettes. "We work well together. You understand me like no other human being does,  _understanding_ me, not _deducing_ me the way that git Mycroft does. We obviously _feel_ ," he snaps the word out, hating it and wishing for a better word, "a lot for each other. You have proven repeatedly that you are willing to die for me, and I have proven that I will die for you. Marriage is the next logical step, if only to ensure that we have-"

"-Marriage is _not_ the next logical step, you idiot!" shouts John. "Have you no concept of romance? You proposed to me when we _haven't even dated_ , so deduce what I want you to say next!"

"...Oh."

John sighs again, exasperated. "Why do we always end up shouting at each other, Sherlock?"

"Because you are stubborn and obstinate and I am persistent in my frank observations."

"Flip that."

"No."

"Fine. You're buying dinner. Not at Angelo's."

"... You've become smarter, John."

"Idiot."

 

_1234567890_

 

"Did you see the look on his face?" John laughs, really laughs, all the lines in his face crinkling in the happy manner that Sherlock prefers. "I think that is the only time we have left him gobsmacked!"

"It is a rare occurence, to be sure," agrees Sherlock, a huge grin on his face. And then he hugs his blogger-doctor-partner. "Marry me, John."

John doesn't even think twice. "Sure. When?"

 

_1234567890_

 

"That was Very Not Good."

"But it was interesting."

"You ran off chasing a barrister who committed fraud and a murder and left me waiting at the altar. For three hours."

"There wasn't an altar. Was there?"

"No. Proverbial altar. Three hours, Sherlock!"

"I did get him though. Didn't expect his lover to be waiting at the house."

"Why didn't you call? I could've helped!"

"I'm not getting my husband hurt on his wedding day."

"Not your husband yet. And what makes you think I want my not-yet-my-husband hurt on  _his_  wedding day?"

"...oh."

"Right. Because of this, Mycroft has declared himself the planner for the next attempt, which means your mother will be in attendance along with probably everyone you ever hated with the exception of me and Mrs Hudson and possibly Greg and Molly."

"John..."

"Don't you 'John' me, you deserve it. Three hours of agony crafted just for you. Enjoy."

"You have to be there too, you know."

"Your mother will adore me for making an honest man out of you. I'm not worried."

"John!"


End file.
